Fight Like A Mick
by ProjectStarfire
Summary: A particularly vicious exchange between Jack and his father leads to emotions, not to mention Jack's Irish temper, running high.


"Your mother couldn't keep me happy, but I still never had to leave the house to get any…she never knew….and she was dumb enough to believe me when I talked her outta taking you to the doctor by telling her that you'd told me that you were just having larger bowel movements than normal every so often, and that's why you were always so sore back there…stupid cunt…"

"You sick bastard," Jack growled through clenched teeth, shaking his head slowly, his vision now blurred by the tears he couldn't stop. "You ruined me."

"Get over it, you sorry -ass wimp-- you were ruined from the day you were born." With that, Jack felt the slight nausea stirring in his stomach turn into an all-out churning sickness.

"Dad…for the love of Christ, I'm your _son_…how could you _do_ this to me?"

"The same way I did with that whining whore you call a mother…"

"_Don't…" _Jack suddenly hissed, pointing his finger at the other man, and now shaking his head a bit more vehemently for emphasis. "_Don't you fucking dare talk about my mother like that…._"

"The truth hurts, doesn't it…" his father then taunted, now facing him; Jack silently swore to himself that, had the man been any closer, he would have easily suffered a broken jaw courtesy of the younger Mick.

"Haven't you gotten it through that thick-ass skull of yours after all these years that your _precious mother _never wanted to even _have you _to _begin with_?"

"That's not true…it's not true, and you know it…"

"Believe whatever the fuck you wanna… 'cause it's the truth…and just so you know, there were times that I wished the same goddamned thing…look at ya- from the time you were born, you were nothin' but trouble…a fuckin' constant pain in my ass from day one…"

"I think I turned out okay, despite the constant hell I was living in…"

"Oh, what? Mister Big-Shot-High-And-Mighty-District-Attorney….do you really think that just because you got a fancy title to hide behind now that that makes you any different in my eyes?"

"Have you ever stopped to think that I stopped vying for your approval a long time ago? I'm a grown man- I don't have to try and please you anymore…I don't know why I bothered to when I was little- it was a waste of my childhood."

"Yeah? Well you were a waste, anyway… you better thank your fuckin' lucky stars that you survived-- 'cause all I woulda had to do was just give your mother one good, hard kick, and you'da been history…and don't think I didn't want to-- as much fuckin' stress as I was under on the job, the last thing I was lookin' forward to was another screamin' little brat vyin' for the last few cents of my goddamned paycheck every two weeks…"

"Well, it's certainly nice to know how you really feel about me, Dad…although I pretty much had it figured out already…I was never your son….all I ever was to you was just a worthless waste of beer money- something else to just kick out of the way when you came staggering in from the pub…."

"Well, I'll be damned…you do know somethin', don't you…."

"All this time, I've tried to forget about what you did…tried to pretend it never happened…but the truth of the matter is that I'll never be able to…"

"Y'know what they say, son…." his father began in a smug tone. "What doesn't kill you…" With those words, Jack's breaking point was quickly surpassed, and he suddenly lunged at the other man, having no clue as to what he intended to do to him; as the two collided, the effort did nothing more than cause the senior McCoy to stumble backwards into the wall, at which point Jack took advantage of the sudden off-guard with a vicious swing that connected with his father's nose, the blow summoning forth blood immediately thereafter. Unfortunately for Jack, he all-too-quickly found out the disadvantages of only being six-foot-one, and one-hundred-sixty-five pounds when attempting to overtake a man of six-feet-three inches and two-hundred- fifty pounds, no matter if the larger man _was_ slightly inebriated at the moment. Before he knew what had hit him, Jack was on his back on the couch, his stomach now throbbing mercilessly; the moment he was able to regain some semblance of his surroundings, he then forced himself upright, and was immediately sick, the vomit seeming to nearly pour out of him.

"You stupid fuck…you wanna take me on? C'mon- get on your _feet_, you scrawny little bastard! You keep fuckin' with me, you'll be pukin' blood next time_-- C'MON!!!" _the old man bellowed before downing another can of beer. "You fight like your mother!!" Again, his father's word choice succeeded in triggering Jack's Irish temper, and he stood up , slowly at first, from the couch, gathering the rest of his scattered wits before charging at the other man once more. This time, however, he caught a break- his father had momentarily removed his attention from what he thought was a still-suffering Jack, laughing as he took a swig from yet another beer. It was in that instant that Jack made his move, aiming for his father's legs, and succeeding in knocking him to the floor, where he then began pounding on the dazed drunk- his face, his chest, his arms- it didn't matter-- this was no longer Jack McCoy beating on his old man- this was the anger talking now, in full Irish tilt.


End file.
